


Escape Velocity

by Tragicplaywright



Series: Celestial Navigation [2]
Category: Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Angst, But Also A Bunch Of Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Original Character(s), Tiger needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tragicplaywright/pseuds/Tragicplaywright
Summary: Nangial produces a small pot of black paint. Tiger wonders how long that he has been planning this, to be so prepared. He takes the pot, turning it this way and that as he considers it. Tiger dips three fingers inside, letting the excess paint drip away, then runs them down the centre of his forehead.Nangial makes a sound of approval.An exploration of a possible backstory for Tiger. Ties in to the first instalment of the Celestial Navigation series.





	Escape Velocity

**Author's Note:**

> For contextual detail, this work spans chapters 7-9 of Finding Stars and includes a lot of flashback scenes to Tiger's past. So half of it won't make sense unless you've read Finding Stars but if you're just here for Tiger then feel free to skip those parts (don't worry I've sectioned them off for easy reading)
> 
> Cross-posted on my [tumblr](http://spoilers-the-assassin-did-it.tumblr.com/)

The door slides shut with a soft hiss, obscuring Apollo's retreating figure. Tiger regards the child in the cell before him. They meet his gaze steadily from their cross-legged position on the floor, eyes betraying no hint of emotion. Still he can sense the movement going on behind the eyes, in the way they sweep the room looking for every detail, in how they consider him; seeking weaknesses. They hadn't tried to run when he opened the door, Apollo had been enough to dissuade them, but given the opportunity he knows that they would take it. Children always make the most loyal soldiers. The ones who will do anything for the cause, for their leaders. 

Young green eyes, wide and angry, full of spirit flash through his mind. 

Pushing away the memory, Tiger reaches for the intercom, hailing the kitchen. Requesting food is an easy enough task, though he stresses the importance of secrecy. Matron suspects there may be a Cerberus agent operating within Spyral and until she has determined who it may be, the matter of the helot child must be kept under close guard lest the agent attempts to reclaim them. Similarly, the Cerberus agent he had captured must be kept under surveillance to ensure that the agent within Spyral did not free him, or if they do make contact to seek out who the double-crosser is. 

Late afternoon prayers are drawing close and Tiger will need to find a suitable replacement to guard the child soon. Perhaps one of the three who had been on the mission to capture them, as no doubt Matron has already deemed them to be loyal. 

A chime at the door alerts Tiger to the presence of another agent. 

He accepts the bottle and sandwich from the agent, nodding for him to leave. The agent lingers a moment longer, curious about the child in the cell but the glare Tiger sends him quickly has him scuttling away. The helot's eyes track Tiger as he makes his way back to them, stopping just outside the clear glass of the cell. Unscrewing the cap of the water he drinks, a couple of gulps that are just enough to show the water level has lowered. He unwraps the sandwich, a plain ham and cheese he notes, taking a single bite from one of the corners. He waits a minute, two, letting the time drag on to show the lack of ill effects. 

"We are not going to harm you. Nothing you eat or drink here will be drugged or poisoned." He says, punctuating his point. He isn't sure if they understand his words, but his actions should be enough. "I am going to open the door now to give you the food. Do not try to run or fight. You will not be able to open the door to this room." 

Again, there is no way to tell if the child has understood. They rise to their feet as the door to their cell opens with a grace unnatural in a child of their age. However, they make no move to run as he approaches. They tense as he reaches the doorway, an almost imperceptible tightening in their shoulders. 

Now he hesitates. He does not believe the child will take the sandwich and bottle from him if he offers them, but to put them on the ground will be leaving himself open to attack. An opportunity that they will most likely take. Only moments after he has bent over, a small body collides with his own, a hand connecting with the base of his neck, pushing him down into a knobbly knee. He lands heavily on his hands and knees. The child leaps forwards, using his back as a springboard to propel themselves away from him and towards the door.  

Quickly regaining his feet, Tiger abandons the food inside the cell and turns to face his small opponent. They are already examining the control panel by the door, temporarily abandoning their investigation to sink into a fighter's stance as they notice he has recovered. He doesn't want to injure them, doesn't want to fight them at all if he can avoid it, so he stalks forward puffing his chest intimidatingly. "This is pointless. You cannot leave this room." His collar throbs from the impact of their knee, surprisingly strong for one so young. 

An idea comes to him and he pauses a short few meters away from the child. "Very well, go on then." He gestures towards the panel by the door. "Open it." He makes sure to relax his stance entirely, even though doing so will make him an easy target for attack. He is confident that he will be able to beat the child in a fight, even if they have the opening advantage. 

The child stays in their tense stance, seemingly more unsure of them self as the time goes on and still Tiger makes no move to fight them. At last they straighten, lowering their fists but no less on edge. Their eyes flicker to the door and when Tiger does not react they take one hesitant step towards it. Keeping majority of their body still angled towards him, they continue their examination of the pad, poking experimentally at it. Tiger wonders if Cerberus gave their helots any training in hacking and electronics. He does not think it likely. 

He gives them two long minutes to sate their curiosity before deeming that there is no way for them to open the door. The child turns back to him fully, dark eyes meeting his evenly. "You will need to return to your cell," he tells them, "I am sorry but that must be how it is for now."

They hold his gaze as they walk back to the cell, him turning to the side to let them pass. So, they do understand what he has been saying. He must remember to note that down in their file later. Until then Spyral has not been sure, it is unlikely that they understood no language at all but now he knows for certain that English is one that they do. It raises questions of their silence and whether it could be voluntary.  

Once they are fully situated inside the cell, Tiger closes the door. He gestures to the food. "Eat." 

The child picks up the sandwich, turning it around as they inspect it. Then, just as he had done earlier, takes a small bite from one of the corners. 

-

His earliest memory is of his mother's cooking, and one of the few things he can remember of her. Her long dark hair, soft voice and the shimmering smell of Bosnian Shorba that permeated the air around her. That had been her favourite dish, his father would tell him years later on one of the few times he would speak of her. There had been a bombing that day, whilst he was at school, the shells hitting so close the ground rumbled underneath the force. Their teacher kept them in the classroom until the last of the tremors stopped, his eyes glued to the dust and smoke rising from the window on the east side. From where he lived. 

Then he ran, school work abandoned, he ran to the beat of the blood in his ears, until he couldn't feel the breath in his chest. Strong hands caught him as he neared the site. "No! Let me go." He demanded, struggling against the grip. All he could think of was his house, only a few streets over. 

"There is nothing you can do Namir. Your father is already there, we will wait for news from him."

Namir turns to face his uncle, fists clenched but sighs at the look on his face. His uncle is right, there is nothing he can do. Perhaps his mother had been visiting a friend or buying ingredients for the night’s meal. She may not have been at home at all, or the bomb could have missed their house, it could have hit the street over and she would be shaken but unharmed. 

People stream past them, men going to join the efforts to free those who may be trapped under the rubble, family's joyful shouts as they reunite, the wails of those who have received terrible news.  He stands there throughout it all, with only the heavy weight of his uncle's hand on his shoulder to anchor him to reality, lost within his own mind, heartbeat sharp against his rib cage. The noises seem to reach him through water, everyone moving in slow motion. 

Then the water bursts. 

A figure emerges from the mass, broad shouldered and bearded, cradling a bundle to his chest. His father knees when he reaches them and Namir reaches out to the cloth, exposing the face of his younger brother. Sangar's small nose wrinkles as he coughs weakly, green eyes fluttering. The cloth is speckled with blood. Namir searches desperately for his mother, looking past his father. 

"I'm sorry Namir. I'm sorry son."

-

They stand in crowded cells, four to five in what was only meant for one, each wearing an identical emotionless expression. All major injuries have been tended to, though bruising is high. This will not be a sustainable solution. They can only hold the helots in these cells for so long, they will soon need to find a more permanent place to for them. Tiger tells Matron as much. 

 Helena sighs. "I know. Give me a few days, I'll get something organised for them at St Hadrian." 

"What are you going to do with them?"

Matron surveys the helots, majority of them under the age of eighteen. "Find out what they can tell us about Cerberus. Then try to undo whatever it is that Cerberus has done to them." 

"It will not be an easy feat." It is an understatement. Just as it is unlikely that they will learn anything of value from the helots. Underneath all her cynicism Helena is an idealist at heart, that is why she is a leader. 

Tiger feels himself drawn to the small girl on the cell to the right. Stellanova her file had read. On the flight back from the Cerberus training compound he had read as much on her and the other helots as he could, the amount of injuries listed there had his hands shaking. He had forced himself to watch the training videos, recalling the commands used in case they became necessary in the future. A part of him hates himself for it. 

Sensing his eyes on her, Stellanova looks up. She hadn't reacted as the Spyral agents situated the other helots with her, though he was sure that she must be questioning what happened. Whatever had been done to them, the helots aren't mindless, they simply lack the ability to act without permission. He is sure of it. 

A determination to help these children grips his heart. 

-

Namir's temper surges. He doesn't give his opponent time to think, launching himself at the other boy in a whirlwind of fury. There is no skill behind his punches, but there is a strength born of the harsh reality of the life he has lived. His mind his blank save for the roaring in his ears, his whole world narrowed to the taller boy he fought and the exchanging of their fists. 

He lands the first blow, glancing off Batoor's cheek. 

It has been five years since the war against the Soviet's had ended. There hadn't been much fanfare around the whole affair. One day the fighting just ceased. "The Soviets are leaving." His father had told him, "Najibullanh's government is collapsing. The war is over, Namir." He hadn't known what that had meant, the concept of peace far from anything he had ever known. The fighting had existed before he was born, and he had been so sure it would never end. And yet, the tanks had retreated, the bombs no longer fell. 

But that tentative peace hadn't lasted long. 

Only two years later the Taliban invaded, a surprise attack that hadn't lasted long. Long enough for those foolish enough to believe in freedom to fight, for those brave enough like his father and uncle to lose their lives. 

A hit to his chest has Namir staggering backwards. His foot catches on a rock and he falls, wind rushing from his lungs as he hits his back against the unforgiving ground. Through his gasping, he can just see the figure of the other boy approaching to press his advantage. Namir sweeps his legs out desperately, catching Batoor just below the knee and knocking him off his feet. 

By now the two of them have amassed a small crowd. They form a ring around the two fighting boys calling encouragements and insults. Namir's eyes land on an older man, watching them with laser like intensity. Over the din of the crowd he hears the words accompanying the movement of his mouth. "Five hundred that the taller boy wins." 

A fresh wave of anger rushes through Namir. He forces himself to his knees. He would not let Batoor win, no matter what any other thought. He stumbles over to him, straddling his chest to deliver, one, two blows to his head. Batoor catches his fist on the third and twists violently.

The two of them roll, tussling in the dirt each throwing punches and kicks at the other as they can. Namir feels Batoor's nails scrape down his arm, the burn of breaking skin. 

A cry rings out through the on lookers. Taliban soldiers are approaching. Namir pulls back from the other boy immediately, his anger not enough to make him stupid. He scatters with the rest of the crowd, ignoring the soldier's shouts for them. He knows these streets well, ducking through back alleyways and the smallest of gaps between houses, not slowing until the yells have long since faded into nothingness. 

At last he leans against the wall of a house, chest rising and falling as he attempts to catch his breath. He touches his split lip, assessing what damage Batoor might have done.

"You fought well." 

Namir whirls around to face the voice. It's the man from before. "You bet against me." He says. 

"I did. I wanted to see how you would fight to prove me wrong." The man replies easily. 

Namir's eyes narrow in his distaste at being manipulated. "And?"

The man chuckles amused by his boldness. "You fought with a sharp mind as well as strong fists. I have need of boys who can fight like you." 

Fear clutches at Namir's heart as he comes to a sudden realisation. "If you are with the Taliban; I am not interested in your wars." He subtly shifts himself away from the man, preparing himself to run. 

"No nothing like that." The man reassures, "I am Nangial. I am the manager of many fighters at the _Nadi Alqital_.” Namir has heard of it before, an underground fight ring, a good place to earn money. “What is your name boy?"

He raises his chin. "Namir."

“Namir.” Nangial hums in consideration, “You were named aptly, little tiger.”

-

"Hypnos is dangerous to use on the mind of a child."

"I know Agent 1."

"Both for the child and the user. We do not know what other dangers there may be with minds as damaged as these."

Helena turns to face him fully. "That is a risk we are going to have to take." Her face softens slightly in a way she allows only a few to see. "We'll be careful. I'd like it if you could be one of the agents working with them."

As if he would withdraw now. "Of course." Tiger agrees amicably. He's seen far too much of the horrors these children have faced to turn away from their suffering now. He has failed enough people in his life. 

They try with the adults first. Their minds are a maze of locked doors that he cannot navigate without fear of getting lost. No doubt the work of a psychic, hiding every memory that could be used against Cerberus, supressing all that makes the helots human. He isn't sure if it is possible for him to untangle, not with the limitations of hypnos. Perhaps it would be best for them to seek the help of those professionally experienced in the matters of the mind and of the psychic persuasion. 

Eventually they move on to the children with the hope that with their youth Cerberus has had less time to condition them fully. He sits cross-legged opposite from a similarly positioned Stellanova. For all that she is seemingly indifferent about her situation, her steps had been a sliver shy of hesitant as she followed him into the empty room. 

"I am not going to take anything from you." Tiger says in an attempt to reassure. "I am simply going to take a measure of the state of your mind so that we can figure out how best to return what has been stolen from you." 

Stellanova lowers her eyes from his. Tiger cannot stop himself from reaching out to cover her small hand with his. In all the short time he has known her, Stellanova has only displayed the slightest sign of weakness, never failing to meet them head on. Her hand gives an aborted twitch under his and she tilts her head as she stares at it. Tiger wonders when the last time she had been touched for any reason other than violence was. 

Then, as gently as he can, Tiger enters her mind. 

-

The roar of the crowd still echoes through his ears. An arm wrapped around his shoulders steers him into another room, a voice congratulating him. Namir feels numb as he unwraps the blood streaked bandages from around his hands, the adrenaline of the battle draining away to weary tiredness. Nangial hands him a bottle of water. "You did well my fierce Tiger."

Namir doesn't respond, methodically stripping away the last vestiges of the fight. His muscles shake with exhaustion and wounds that will need to be tended to later. For now, he ignores them in favour of wiping the blood from his skin. He needs to return to Sangar soon, he does not like to leave him alone for the entirety of the night, not with his rising renowned making the two of them a target. 

Namir wraps his hands with fresh bandages, covering his split and bleeding knuckles. "Will that be all for tonight?" He asks Nangial. 

"You don't want to celebrate your victory?" Nangial asks, as he does every time. Namir shakes his head. This night Nangial persists. "If you wish to continue your career you need to make yourself known. There is no way for you to rise above what you have now otherwise, fighting is only part of this." 

"I am tried Nangial, perhaps another night." 

Namir sees a flicker of greed cross Nangial's face. "Of course, there are other ways to ensure that you are recognised. A way of distinguishing yourself from the rest." Namir nods for him to continue. "I was thinking markings. A tiger, or just stripes." 

"Markings?" Namir has thought about tattoos before, intrigued by the idea of them but never anything serious. It was against the teachings of the Prophet. "The Taliban would never allow it, tattoos are _haram_." 

Nangial raises his hands. "No, no, not a tattoo, I would never suggest you imitate the _kuffar_. But maybe something less... permanent. Paint that can be applied before fights and taken off after." He produces a small pot of black paint. Namir wonders how long that he has been planning this, to be so prepared. He takes the pot, turning it this way and that as he considers it. Namir dips three fingers inside, letting the excess paint drip away, then runs them down the centre of his forehead. 

Nangial makes a sound of satisfaction. 

Sangar isn't so approving. 

"What is that?" He demands as Namir walks through the door. 

"Tiger stripes. Nangial believes they will allow me to make more money."

"Of course." Sangar mutters, voice rich with disapproval. 

Namir runs a hand through his hair angrily. Sangar has been argumentative recently, and he has heard similar complaints and mutterings all too often lately. "The earnings I make are what allow us to eat, to live in a house and have the clothing we have."

Sangar picks at the edge of the rug, roughly twisting the loose edges between his fingers. "Ah yes, how could I forget. Sometimes I think you are more Tiger than Namir." 

"I am tired Sangar, save the arguing for tomorrow." Namir can feel his brother's angry eyes on his back even as he turns away. 

-

Though much more comfortable, Tiger cannot help but compare the lives of the helots now to what he saw in the compound. They still sleep in dormitories, walls lined with beds, have a cafeteria that serves them at specific times without consultation on what they may want to eat. They spend majority of their day in the provided gymnasium, sparring or otherwise training. He can see why there hadn't been much difficulty in getting them to adjust to their new lives. Even the hypnos sessions would be similar to what Cerberus had done, though less harmful. At least that is the intention. 

Helena has put him in charge of the well-being of the helots and the investigation into the double agent. Though he knows that it is his duty to follow her orders and the task he has been given is a noble one, Tiger longs to go away on a mission. Preferably one that requires a lot of punching. 

However, there are things at St Hadrian that he doubts the helots would have done with Cerberus. Apollo had suggested it on Midnighter and his last visit, with the brightly coloured paper just arriving today. Of course, Tiger hadn't seen the problem with doing so with normal, white paper, but Apollo had been insistent. And now here Tiger is, sitting at one of the long tables in the cafeteria with a school of helots watching him attentively. 

Dictating his actions as he goes, Tiger folds the vibrant green square diagonally, then folds the triangle created in half. Opening the top flap of triangle, he brings it down to form a trapezium, then flips the paper over to do the same to the other side.

Tiger grumbles his frustration in the privacy of his mind as he momentarily forgets the next step. It had taken him longer than he would have liked the previous evening to learn how to make the simple paper crane, and he hid the evidence of several discarded failures before they could be found. 

He lifts the left flap up and presses it down to form a square and creases the two outer edges inwards. The upbeat song from the tutorial video had not made concentration any easier, and in a fit of frustration he muted the cursed thing. He opens the whole thing up to create a long equilateral kite, flipping it over to once again repeat the last few steps. 

A few of the helots lean forwards to better see the movements of his hands. Stellanova, who has claimed a prize position at his side shifts and Tiger can imagine the tilt of her head, as he has found she does when presented with something she doesn't understand. 

He continues the creation of the green paper crane, sending a quick prayer of thanks when he manages to complete the whole crane without miss-starting. He holds the origami up for the helots to see, then gestures at the pile of paper. "Take a piece of paper. Your task is to attempt to re-create the design from memory, however you may inspect the completed crane for reference at any time." 

When Apollo had originally suggested the idea, he had most likely meant for it to be a relaxing way for the helots to spend their time. This way it is an opportunity for Spyral to examine the ability of the helots in memory and general thought processing. They are all highly trained fighters, that much is clear, however what else Cerberus may have trained them in, is not. 

Stellanova selects a light blue paper with cartoonish purple flowers. She sits down a little ways from him, folding the paper for the first few steps confidently. Tiger keeps his distance, from her and the others, to ensure that he is seen as a casual observer rather than an enforcer. It is supposed to be a fun, relaxing task after all. 

He scans the room, taking in the tables of children entirely focused on the task in front of them. Their small hands, folding and unfolding when they've made a mistake, twisting the paper around to figure out what to do next. There is something both heart-warming and unsettling about the sight at once, the expected youthful joy contrasting with the reality of how silent and emotionless they are whilst doing it. Tiger hopes that at some level they are able to enjoy themselves, if not now, then later looking back on this moment. 

After a while, but a shorter time than he expects, Stellanova walks over to him, hands cradling a blue and purple shape. "Have you made the crane already?" He asks her, struggling to keep the surprise out of his voice. Stellanova glances down at her hands, then tilts her head in what could be considered a nod. Tiger blinks as she holds out the almost perfectly formed crane. "Good job." Their hands brush as he takes it from her, Stellanova's fingers curling into his slightly at the contact. 

He puts her crane down next to his own. 

-

Namir's hands still, needle halfway through the fabric. Sangar looks down at him, green eyes swim with a mixture of determination and apprehension. 

"You are a child." Namir scarcely hears himself talk.  

Sangar crosses his arms, mouth set in a hard line, all hesitation gone. "I am no younger than you were when you started fighting. At least I am doing so for a cause rather my own greed for glory."

Namir stands, his reparation of his shirt forgotten. "I took the job for you, to protect you, to feed you and give you a roof over your head."

Sangar shakes his head. "Maybe at first, but you earn enough to have quit long ago, to have gotten a proper, honourable job." He slumps slightly. "Now you only care for yourself."

A sharp pain lances through him. How could Sangar say such a thing, does he not know the sacrifices that Namir has made for him. "And now you decide to join the Taliban. The people who killed our father and uncle." He spits back, betrayal and disgust warring through him. "You are the one without honour." 

His brother flinches. Then his expression hardens. "I have made my decision, I am not asking for your permission nor your approval. I do not need it."  He marches back out the door he just entered, into the street. 

Namir watches him disappear from sight. Perhaps if he had known then, he would have chased after Sangar, to apologize and beseech him to return home, to talk him out of the idea. Perhaps he could have changed what happened. But at the time he had not known, instead he stayed frozen where he stood, limbs shaking with the aftereffects of the conversation. 

Three months later Kandahar falls. The Americans return in larger numbers and with more weapons than they have before, teaming up with Sherzai and Karzi's men. They bomb Taliban strongholds, promising that not civilians would be harmed. Namir waits with baited breath, as does everyone else who had lived through the war, for the promise to be broken and for houses to be destroyed. 

He paces through his home, along the walls until he wears a dent into the rug, for news. Sangar has left to fight, and Namir is conflicted. He does not want his younger brother to be harmed, but still he does not wish for the Taliban to win. And even then, he is not sure if an American rule will be any better, or if they will retreat completely once victorious. 

Then, on the sixth of December, the Taliban surrender to Sherzai's men, and on the seventh he appoints himself governor of Kandahar. Sangar did not return to their home, though Namir does hear that many Taliban have fled to Pakistan. He prays that evening that Sangar was one of them. 

That night, Namir breaks a punching bag and his right index finger. 

-

Tiger and Stellanova settle into their usual positions opposite each other. He places his hand palm up on the floor between them in offering. Stellanova reaches out, at first only tips of her fingers brushing his, then covers as much as his hand as she can with her own. 

"Are you ready?" He asks her. She nods, visibly forcing the tension to leave her body. Tiger takes a breath, then enters her mind, the twisting maze of it now familiar. 

He traces paths he has trodden before, sliding past doors that have been left open by Cerberus, snatches of training and day to day life that they deemed harmless for her to remember. He has already been through these and knows all that they contain. Tiger pushes away the urge to enter her newer memories, the ones made since she arrived at Spyral. Her right to privacy, so often violated in the past, is more important than his passing curiosity. 

Going further than he has been before, Tiger reaches new doors, all locked. Gently pressing against each in turn yields no results, and he applies a little more pressure, careful to not cause Stellanova any unnecessary pain. He encounters one that gives way, opening it just a crack to look inside without losing himself in the memory. Stellanova is young, no older than seven, shoulders squared as she faces a man three times her size. Her opponent is not a helot, but rather dressed in the standard hoplite attire, the clear amusement on his face giving him away if his clothing had not. 

"You're really trying to tell me that this little kid is supposed to be able to take me?" He says to someone off to the side. 

"Yes, recruit." Another man walks into view, supposedly one of the trainers. Tiger memorizes his face. "That _is_ what they are trained to do. Now begin."

The recruit chargers immediately, confident smiles and assured of his victory. Stellanova sidesteps, her fist catching a pressure point on his right arm. The recruit swears, attempting to shake his arm awake, smile replaced by a glare. "You little shit." 

She just tilts her head innocently, and with a roar the man charges again. Stellanova deflects all his blows with efficiency, clocking him against the jaw. It is almost amusing to watch, if Tiger could forget the context. Still he applauds her for her small victories. The man goes down quickly and hard, with bruises that will take a while to heal.

Tiger leaves the memory with no more knowledge than before, but oddly satisfied. 

Continuing onward, he encounters a strange resistance. Not anything too noticeable at first, just a slight increase in difficulty in moving forward, as if he were pushing through thickened air. Something trickles along next to him, a jolt of alien fear coursing through him when it brushes against him. Tiger pauses in shock. This is the first time he has encountered anything resembling an emotion inside any helot. He thought that Cerberus had locked them all tightly away. 

The resistance becomes stronger, as the fear mingles with hints of sadness, until he is brought to a standstill. No matter how hard he struggles Tiger cannot move further. He stumbles backwards until the pressure is not as intense, cautiously feeling the barrier out as best he can. This one is different to the ones he has encountered before, those invasions from an outside force. Rather than a harsh locked door, this is a shadowy mist, but no less powerful. He wonders if Cerberus even knows that it is there. 

He prods it gently, murmuring reassurances. Then all of a sudden it gives way, swallowing him whole. 

Immediately he is overwhelmed with a tsunami of emotion. A confusing mess of fear, anger, sadness, pushing around him from all sides. There are too many, too much at once. Confusion, dread, unease batter into him, knocking him off his feet. Before he can even figure one emotion from another, the next slams into him. He slips under the flood, struggling to resurface. 

He pulls back from her mind with a gasp. Across from him Stellanova is trembling, making small whimpers of sound. Her hand clenches his, his bones creaking slightly under the pressure. He raises his other hand to his cheek, feeling wetness there. He calls to Stellanova, attempting to rouse her from the state of shock she is in. 

She tenses underneath his hand, then her shoulders fall, and the grip on his hand slackens. Her eyes open, once again empty of all previous trace of emotion, face neutral. The image is at odd with the tear tracks still streaking her cheeks. Gently he wipes them away with his _patu_. He pushed too hard, and Stellanova has retreated inside herself once again. 

Nevertheless, now Tiger has proof that there is more to her than what Cerberus had managed to steal. 

-

The attack came with little warning. There had been rumours of the Taliban amassing to reclaim the city of Kandahar as their place of operations, but none expected them to come as they had. Gun fire and shouts fill the streets, rousing Namir from his doze. It is only a little after dawn prayers, and his is tired from the match from the night before. 

His bruises scream in protest as he rolls out of bed and dresses, but he ignores them, used to the pain by now. 

The last time the Taliban attempted to take Kandahar they succeeded, and Namir lost his father and uncle in the conflict. Then, he was too young to partake, hiding in his home with his brother. This time he intends to fight. 

The streets are awash with people; civilians and Afghan and outside military. Namir follows the soldiers as they run towards the conflict, weaving between the fleeing men, women and children. He sees others like him joining in, not military but still willing to fight for what little freedom they have gained since the removal of Taliban forces. The gunfire grows louder as he approaches, cries and the metallic smell of blood thick in the air. 

Then he reaches the main square. The Taliban distinguish themselves through the use of black turbans and face coverings. A familiar rage surges through Namir, the adrenaline of the upcoming combat coursing through his veins. He picks up a gun from the cooling body of a fallen man, not giving him a second glance to see who he had been fighting for. There would be time for respect and grief for the dead after the battle is won. 

He catches sight of a familiar face. Though it is hardened, baby fat all but lost through the passage of time, the light green eyes cannot be mistaken. "Sangar!" Namir calls, attempting to push through the fray. "Sangar!" His brother makes no indication that he heard, calling to his companions around him, and charging forwards and away. 

Namir follows his little brother desperately, not caring whether the people he is knocking out of the way are Taliban or an ally. He loses Sangar in the packed streets, swallowed by the confusion. 

A man appears in front of him, shouted commands almost incomprehensible over the noise, gun pointed at Namir. He raises his own gun, the metal cool and unfamiliar in his hands. He is unprepared for the force of the recoil, the shot going wide and hitting a wall. He dodges the return fire, squeezing into a nearby alley for cover. Peeking out, he sees the Taliban soldier struggling to reload. The second shot hits the man in the shoulder and he staggers back with an inarticulate shout. 

Namir advances, knocking the man out with a kick to the head from where he writhes on the ground. Another Taliban engages him, a bullet grazing Namir's arm. He hisses at the sting, returning the favour with a bullet of his own. He man swears, dropping his gun in favour of clutching at his leg. Something collides with Namir's back, a strong hand circling his wrist and twisting.

The gun clatters from his grip. Namir slams his elbow back, and the hold loosens. The butt of his opponent's gun catches him on the side of his head as Namir turns, the world swimming before his eyes. He stabilizes himself against a nearby wall, hand held out in front of him to block any attacks. On muscle memory he dodges the first aimed at his torso, sidestepping and using his enemy’s momentum against him. He rips the gun away from the Taliban solider, throwing it to the side. 

His opponent swears at Namir, circling him cautiously. Namir snarls like his namesake, lunging forward to knock the other off his rhythm. They exchange blows, Namir clearly the better fighter of the two. He trips the other, throwing him to the floor. A quick blow to the head renders the Taliban soldier unconscious. 

Namir winces as his head wound makes itself known, fingers coming away wet when he probes it experimentally 

Someone behind shouts at him to halt, and his raises his hands in the face of their threat. His heart leaps as he turns, coming face to face with his little brother. Sangar's grip on his gun wavers, and he lowers it slightly in shock. The rest of the battle fades into the background, as Sangar becomes the centre of Namir's focus. "Hello, brother," he says, voice steadier than he feels. 

"...Namir." Sangar takes a step forward, gun lowering even further. 

His eyes flicker to Namir's forehead and his mouth tightens. It's been a while since Namir has thought much about the stripes permanently marked on his forehead. He has gotten used to them with time, as have the people around him. Occasionally he still gets disgusted looks, those who believe that tattoos are a mutilation of Allah's creation, but none of them had bothered him. Not like the look his younger brother is giving him now. 

"I see you are still playing that ridiculous alter ego of yours. And now to have marked yourself like that." Sangar spits. "You have not changed at all." 

Namir does not know if this is true, he is no longer sure who he is, Namir or Tiger. In the ring is the only time he truly feels alive. 

"You have grown." He says in answer. "I am glad you are well. I was not sure if you had managed to flee to Pakistan." 

Sangar snorts. "Like you ever cared."

Namir catches the glint of metal in the sun. He opens his mouth to call a warning. 

Sangar stumbles forwards. A red spot blooms across his chest. 

Namir catches his body as he falls. "No." He says helplessly, ripping away his _patu_ , pressing it against the wound. Sangar coughs, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. "Sangar, hold on."

Namir looks around desperately, finding no help in the men who continue to fight around them. He cradles Sangar's head on his lap, applying even more pressure to the wound. Within moments the _patu_  is soaked red, doing little to stem the flow. Sangar's breath rattles as he expels it, each gasp shallower than the last. 

"Don't leave me little brother, not again." 

The light fades from his eyes. 

-

They are late, the clock having just gone past nine. Tiger leans against the wall just outside the doors that lead to the helot's section of the building. He doesn't worry for Stellanova's safety, he knows that Midnighter and Apollo would never let any harm come to her whilst under their watch, but still he finds himself pacing the hallway for the past half hour for her return. 

Tiger hopes that going out does Stellanova some good. She had retreated into herself after their last hypnos session, acting much more like she had when they first met than she had been in more recent times, reduced back to her emotionless state. He cannot help but feel guilt for his role in the change. 

A glimmering gold rectangle appears in the air in front of him. Midnighter appears first. Tiger feels his ire rising with the aggravating smirk that the man sends his way. He probably purposefully came late just to get a rise out of Tiger. Apollo comes through next, Stellanova in tow. All annoyance melts away at the sight of her small smile. 

It widens slightly at the sight of him. He returns it with a gentle smile of his own. 

"See all safe and sound. Nothing to worry about." Midnighter says.

Tiger switches his gaze to him, an instinctive glower forming. "You're late."

Midnighter shrugs. "No harm, no foul."

"We're sorry." Apollo steps in diplomatically. "You should get Stellanova to show you her dart skills sometime, the kid's a natural." She looks up at the man at the sound of her name. "Isn't that right?"

Stellanova nods shyly. Tiger offers her his hand, and she detaches herself from Apollo's side to accept it. They say their goodbyes, Midnighter and Apollo promising to take her out again soon. Stellanova waves as the two men disappear back through the door.   

-

The first thing he notices about the woman is that she has no face. Or more specifically he finds himself unable to remember her face once he looks away. 

"I've heard of you. The Tiger King of Kandahar." She says. 

He inclines his head slightly in response. She stands in the middle of the _Nadi Alqital_ , surrounded by unconscious bodies. A stream of light from a nearby window catches on her blonde hair. 

"You can call me Agent 8." She grins at him, with vicious kind of joy. "What do you go by?" 

He hesitates, torn between two lives. But there is nothing left for Namir.

"Tiger."

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering here is a brief timeline of events with Tiger's corresponding age:  
> 1979 - the soviet-Afghan war starts  
> 1983 - Tiger is born  
> 1987 - Sangar is born (4)  
> 1990 - his mother dies (7)  
> 1992 - the soviet-Afghan war ends (9)  
> 1994 - the Taliban take over (his father and uncle die, 11)  
> 1997 - Tiger starts fighting (14)  
> 2001 - Sangar joins the Taliban and a few months later the Taliban are forced to flee to Pakistan (18)  
> 2006 - the Taliban attempt to reclaim Kandahar (23)  
> 2007 - Tiger meets Alia and leaves (24)
> 
> Patu's are the extra bit of cloth that Tiger wears around his neck.  
> Did I name an underground fight ring, 'Fight Club' but in Arabic? Yes, absolutely


End file.
